


The Lone Wolf

by FairytaleLoveandChocolate



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Family, Friendship, Growing Up, Love, Multi, Romance, Sexual Content, Stark - Freeform, wolf - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairytaleLoveandChocolate/pseuds/FairytaleLoveandChocolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was finally there, after all those years, right in front of her. “It’s good to finally see you again, m’lady.” He said with a small smile and sad eyes. “I’m not a lady,” “Then what are you?” “A wolf.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Needle

**Author's Note:**

> I based this story off an epilogue I wrote for a Gendrya FanFiction. I will work with any suggestions you might have, if I like it. I very much appreciate constructive criticism! Please comment :) If you want to ask me a question or something, my tumblr is: thedorkdynasty.tumblr.com

Chapter One: _Needle_

Arya Stark always knew she had a pack. Arya knew that she would always have her family to fall back on. She was comforted by her entire family’s existence, although each could get on her nerves sometimes.

There was her mother; Lady Catelyn Stark, née Tully. Arya knew that if she fell and got a scratch, her mother would be there to mend her wound, and wash her up, telling her not to be so rowdy. Her mother taught her all of the proper lessons, and although Arya did not care much for any of them, they would still process in the back of her mind. To this day, Arya still knew what she ought to live by; what her mother taught her: Family, Duty, Honour.

There was also Arya’s sister, Sansa. Sansa, of course could not stand Arya, and vice versa. Sansa was the proper daughter; the good daughter. Sansa knew all of her lessons and all of her dances and she had the most proper manners of anyone. Arya knew she could count on her elder sister to tell her what to do and what not to do, even though Arya seldom ever listened. It was also very amusing to pick on Sansa, and that was what Arya admired best about her sister.

There was also Arya’s father, Lord Eddard Stark. If she ever felt lonely, Arya could find herself in the Godswood, sitting next to her father as he took care of his great sword, Ice. Not only did he always know how to be around Arya, she felt as though at least a part of him respected that she never wanted to be a lady. For that, Arya loved her father with all her heart.

There was Arya’s younger brother; Bran. If Arya felt playful or competitive, Bran would always be there to play swords with her. Bran was smart, and he held interesting conversation. Arya sometimes had trouble understanding what he was saying, or concentrating on the words he would speak to her. But Bran never told Arya how she should be, and he never told her what to do. He just played swords with her, and Arya asked for nothing more.

Arya’s eldest brother was called Robb.  If Arya needed taking care of, Robb would always be there. She knew he would protect her and her family, but Robb sometimes mixed up their mother’s teachings, believing in Duty, Honour, Family. Though, Arya did not hold this against him, as she often forgot all three words, and went with: irrationality.

And although Rickon was still just a babe, if Arya wanted to feel superior, she would help teach Rickon how to hold a bow properly. It always gave Arya great pleasure in teaching Rickon, and showing off to him. Rickon also had a temper like her own, so Arya enjoyed that she was not the only one.

But there was always one person that Arya loved most in the world: Jon. Jon Snow, to be precise. She always felt like herself when she was with Jon. He never made her feel like she should be someone else, and Jon never made her feel inferior. But Jon was a bastard, and Arya loved him all the more for it. He was an outsider, and so was she. The only difference was that Jon did not think he had a pack, which made Arya sad. Arya had a pack, which he was always a part of. Of course, that was until 298AL, when Arya was nine.

It was a beautiful day in Winterfell. Arya was in a clearing in the woods with beads of sweat dripping down her face. She could hear the rustle of the leaves in the soft breeze, and the water streaming down the river in a constant rhythm. The sun shone strongly down on Arya as she held her stance, but the constant chill of Winterfell made it bearable. But of course, Arya was not concentrated on the winds or the sun or even the music of the river. No, she was concentrated of the big boy in front of her. He was sweating much more than her, and he looked as though he was about to collapse. They’d been at it for several hours now, but Arya was not about to give up until she won.

Mycah had improved significantly over the past few years, and was turning into somewhat of an able opponent. But Arya was also improving, and she’d never lost to Mycah. Today would not be the first time.

Arya held her stick firmly in her hand, ignoring the roughness of the bark. She held her stance as they circled around each other, neither making the first move. Arya was growing impatient. She did not like to wait like this, but she knew that it would be too risky to make a move now. Arya thought for a moment. She was much faster than Mycah. If she moved up behind him, she could stab him in the back and catch him off guard. Yes, that was what she would do. But as she was about to make her move, a mocking voice called, “Playing with sticks again?”

Both Mycah and Arya turned to face Jon. He had a grin playing on his lips as he addressed his sister and her friend. “What are you doing here?” Arya asked pointedly.

“I’ve come to speak with you,” Arya rolled her eyes. Could he not see they were in the middle of a battle?

“We’re busy, Jon.” Jon chuckled a little but his expression grew serious.

“It’s important,” he told her. Arya turned to Mycah and told him to bugger off. Mycah dropped his stick and did so without a word. Mycah did not talk very much.

Arya turned her attention back to Jon. She sat down on the ground and waited for him to follow suite. The ground was hard, but surprisingly comfortable, and Arya knew she would be scolded for getting so dirty. Jon plopped down beside his sister a moment later and did not say anything. After only moments, Arya grew impatient. “Well, out with it then,” she urged. Jon did not look at Arya as he started,

“Uncle Benjen and some of his men will be visiting in a couple days and—”

“And Mother wants me to be a proper lady,” Arya interrupted, growing annoyed that he would bring up something so stupid. Arya looked away.

“No, this isn’t about you,” Jon snapped. Arya shut her mouth. “Now are you going to let me finish?” Jon asked, calmly. Arya nodded.

“Uncle Benjen is coming, and when he leaves to go back to the Wall, I’m going with him.”

“To visit,” Arya inquired. She hoped Jon would take her. She and him always spoke about going to live beyond the Wall together, where they’d fight the Others and become King and Queen beyond the Wall. It was a dream of hers. She loved the idea that she would be able to fight like a knight and conquer the North.

“No,” Arya frowned. “I’m taking the Black.” Jon was looking at Arya now, his grey eyes darker than usual. There was something about his seriousness that made Arya feel strange. She did not want him to leave her. She would not survive without him. Jon was part of her, and she could not stand the thought of her favourite person in the world just abandoning her. Suddenly Arya started to panic.

“No!” She cried. “You can’t leave.” Arya grabbed his arm, but he pulled away, angering Arya.

“I have to, Arya. I don’t belong here.” Jon told her, looking away again. How could Jon be so daft? Maybe he did not belong here, but neither did she.

“I don’t either! Take me with you, at least.” Arya begged. Jon looked down at his hands. Arya could tell he regretted what he would say next, before the words would leave his mouth.

“Ladies cannot become men of the Night’s Watch.” Jon told her with a clenched jaw. Arya stood up. She’d never been so angry at Jon in her life.

“I’m not a Lady.” She told him, malice in her voice and tears in her eyes. She stormed off, leaving Jon disgruntled.

* * *

Days later, Arya had still not forgiven Jon. She would avoid him, and most of her siblings, spending most of her time in the Godswood, swinging her stick around, or riding her horse. When Arya was forced to attend her lessons, she would seldom do as her Septa instructed, and she did her work even carelessly than usual. Arya would be doing what hardly counted as stitching, and she would glance out the window to see her brothers shooting arrows or sparring. It would infuriate her to look over to see Sansa giggling in the corner with Jeyne.

It seemed in those few days that passed, that everyone and everything insulted and infuriated her; especially her family.

Arya was angry with Sansa for being such a proper lady. She hated how her sister gave polite smiles to the passing folk. She hated how Sansa could curtsy without falling on her bum or ripping the hem of her dress. Arya hated how her sister ate in small bites and steady hands. Arya hated how she was supposed to be like Sansa. She hated how she was supposed to know all the right songs and all the proper titles. Arya did not want to be like her sister, she did not want to be the giggling girl in the corner. Arya did not want to be a Lady. Sansa and Catelyn and father and her brothers would tell Arya that one day she would marry some lord and be lady of some castle. They would tell her this in an attempt to comfort Arya, but Arya just wanted to spit in their faces and stomp on their feet. Arya did not want to be some Lady to be married to some Lord. Arya would never. She _could_ never.

Arya loved her father. He was an honourable man with good intentions and grace. He was an excellent Lord, a likeable man and a great father. He was also a strong fighter at war. Arya had always looked up to her father, and she knew she could tell him her greatest desires and he would walk to the edge of the world to assure she got it. So Arya told him as she sat with him in the Godswood, feeling comforted by him presence and the presence of the Old Gods, “I want to be a knight,” Ned laughed and with a squeeze of the shoulder he told her that she would be a great ruler, next to her lord husband. Arya felt herself loving him just a bit less.

Arya did also love her mother, but in a different way. She loved her mother for her beauty and her grace, but Arya could only be infuriated with the way Catelyn loved her. Catelyn would brush her hair and scold her for the knots and the dirt that were tangled in it. Catelyn would give her daughter the finest of gowns, but yell at her when she came home with tears in the fabric. Catelyn would constantly tell Arya how she needs to be a proper lady. She would tell her daughter she wished she could be more like Sansa. It made Arya want to scream at her mother and tell her, “No!” Arya wanted to yell to her mother that maybe it would be easier for her mother, maybe it would be easier for her father, but it would never be easy for Arya. It would never be fair to Arya.  

Most of all, Arya was angry with Jon. Jon was supposed to understand her anger. He was supposed to understand how Arya felt when the people gave her looks of disapproval. Jon was supposed to understand how it felt that she was constantly blamed for not being born proper. Jon was supposed to have thoughts constantly run through his mind that there was something wrong with the way he was because he was a Snow, not a Stark, just like Arya was a Wolf, not a lady. Jon was supposed to be the only one who felt the weight of trying to become someone else in a world, where they hated you no matter what. Jon was supposed to be the runt of the litter, just like Arya was the dark clouds in the blue sky. It infuriated Arya that Jon _did_ understand all these things that Arya felt, but he did not understand that she felt them too.

When Arya found herself standing next to Sansa and Bran, she only felt angry. Horses of grey and black coats trotted up to the line the Starks made, and Arya could only resent the men whom sat on the horses. They were the men who would take Jon away.

The man that rode in front dismounted his horse. He resembled the horse he rode on, with a long face and sharp features. Benjen Stark was a skinny man with eyes an unfamiliar blue. He wore all black, and he nearly blended in with the colour of his horse’s coat. A cold wind blew as he stepped forward. Arya’s lord father hugged his brother in greeting. Benjen greeted his brother’s family, one by one. Arya had to look away when he got to Jon. _He is leaving me for our Uncle_ , Arya thought in pure resentment. But Arya wondered just for a brief moment, wouldn’t she do the same?

* * *

At the feast, Arya sat next to Bran and Rickon. It was a small feast with only the men that had come to visit, the Starks and a few others. A band played in the background, playing smooth songs that sometimes father would hum to.

Food was brought to the table in the most elegant servings, and wine was served by some pretty ladies a couple years Arya’s senior. It was a pleasant dinner, and Ned had even insisted that Jon feast with them, much to Catelyn’s distaste.  The conversation ran strong, and Arya found herself laughing despite trying her hardest to brood. All the men had smiles on their faces, and when Jon said something, they all laughed. Though, Catelyn decided it was time to speak up. Arya did not even know what Jon had said.

“Jon Snow, you shall not say such crude things!” She shouted. The table went silent, and Jon flushed. Arya did not know exactly what Jon had said, nor could she have understood it, but something told her that what he said was not as crude as Catelyn apparently believed it to be.  No one said anything as Catelyn glared. She went on to lecture her husband’s son, in a very mean way. Arya frowned. She was sure Catelyn would have laughed had anyone else said what Jon had said.

Arya was not going to say anything when she heard her mother say,

“You are a disgrace to the Stark name, and I regret that blood runs through your veins. You should never have been born,” But before Catelyn could continue, Arya decided it was time she came in.

“Stop it!” She yelled at her mother. “Jon did nothing wrong! And he is no more a disgrace than I am!” Catelyn looked appalled, but she managed to say to her daughter,

“You will not speak to me with such manner. You—”

“I will speak to you the way you deserve to be spoken to. Jon has done nothing wrong, and if you are so fed up with his existence, then why don’t you look at the man you married?” Arya took in a breath. She did not give a rat’s ass at the looks the people around the table were giving her. Arya was angry, and she was going to do something about it. Pleasing everyone was a lady’s job. Arya was no lady. She stood up, nearly knocking her plate to the ground. “Father is the one you should blame. It is him that decided it would be a great idea to bed another woman, and take home her child. If anyone is the disgrace it is you. And the man you decided to marry.” Everyone stood still as Arya finished. No one said a word until she moved away from the table. She started to run as her name was called; by whom, she did not know.

She found herself sitting against the hard trunk of a Weirwood tree, with tears spilling from her eyes. Arya wiped them away with haste, frustrated because she did not understand why she was sad. She thought she was angry, but the tears told her otherwise, and she did not understand. Arya pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, hiding her face from the sadness of the world.

Arya bit the inside of her lip, heaving with the sudden urge to wail and run into her father’s arms. She wanted to curl up at his side and listen to the sweet sound of the sharpening of the metal. But her father was not with her, and the only comfort Arya could find was in the rustling of the trees and the whistling of the winds. She concentrated on the music the Gods were giving her, trying to follow the constant movement of the wind.

She pretended she was a leaf, blowing with the wind, not knowing when or where the wind would disappear and let her fall to the ground. She pretended that she was being guided by the harsh steadiness of the air. She felt lighter and heavier all at the same time. She liked the uncertainty the wind came with and she found comfort in the solitude of being a leaf, freed from the branches of a tree.  

For a moment, Arya turned into the leaf, until she turned into the wind.

“Arya,” Breaking her dream, Arya looked up from the seclusion of her arms. The cold slapped her in her wet face, sending a chill down her body. Jon stood in front of her with an unreadable expression. Arya wiped away another tear, feeling embarrassed.

Jon took another step toward his little sister and knelt before her. There was a hesitation in the air, but Arya ignored it. Before she could think, Arya crashed into Jon and wrapped her skinny arms around him. Jon embraced her and they stayed like that for what felt like a very long time. Arya knew she would miss Jon, more than anyone. He was her best friend and Arya truly loved him. Jon was her favourite, and that, everyone knew. So Arya clung onto Jon because it was a reality that in a few short days, Jon would be on the road to greet his new family; his new pack. Arya wondered if she was ever part of his pack, because he was part of hers, and she could never leave her pack. That is why she held onto Jon, in hoped that maybe he would not leave. Her embrace only loosened when Jon whispered in Arya’s ear, “I’ve got something for you,”

Arya let go of her brother, wiping away another tear. “A present?” There was a hint of a smile on Jon’s face as he took something from his belt. Jon held it out to Arya, it was a sheathed sword. It was skinny in comparison to the swords Robb and Jon were given. Jon placed it in Arya’s hands and she looked at it in awe. It felt light in her hands, and she stood up, unsheathing it. The blade shone like the sun, in the light of the moon. She was the most beautiful sword Arya had ever seen. She loved it, just as she loved Jon.

“A sword,” she said, exasperated. Still on the ground, Jon snickered. “It’s skinny,”

“So are you,” Jon said, standing up. “But it’s not a toy. It’s a real sword. I had it made special.” Jon told Arya proudly.

“I love it,” Arya said, looking up at Jon. Her heart began to lift again, and the wind in her body began to rise, lifting her heart, and moving with uncertainty.

“It needs a name, you know.” Arya’s brow furrowed in thought. What should she call her?

A coy smile reached Arya’s lips as she looked back at Jon, feeling truly happy; feeling proud. “Needle.”


	2. Nymeria

Chapter Two: _Nymeria_  


Days later, the Starks stood in another line. Arya thought it ridiculous. She did not appreciate waiting for a turn to be told goodbye. _I should not have to say goodbye_ , Arya thought bitterly.

Jon stood in front of the Starks. They were no longer his family. He was of the Black now.

It seemed no one was angry at Arya like she was angry at everyone. Arya only watched stiffly as Jon said goodbye to the Starks. He gave a hug to father and to Robb. He shook Theon’s hand. He kissed Sansa’s cheek, although Sansa did not seem fazed by Jon leaving. She just stayed quiet Although that was expected, Arya only resented her sister for it. Rickon didn’t seem to know what was going on; he was too young to understand. Bran, although sad, seemed detached; it seemed he had a silent understanding.

Jon said his goodbyes with his head high and his stance strong. And when Jon said goodbye to Arya, he said the same thing, with the same stance, and the same words. Arya said her goodbyes with a frown on her face and tears in her eyes. And as those tears fell down her cheeks, Arya could feel her mother’s eyes on her. Catelyn’s eyes were hard, disapproving and regretful. Arya did not think this made her a good person, but she felt glad her mother felt guilt. Ned Stark’s eyes were sad and hesitant as they passed from Catelyn to Jon to Arya.

Arya hugged Jon tightly and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. There was no hesitation as Jon turned away. He walked up to his horse, earning a pat on the shoulder from Uncle Benjen. He did not look back. Still, it was only when the horses started to leave that Arya realised that her pack was leaving her. It seemed she’d grown accustomed to the comfort of reliance. Arya did not want that to change.

This just couldn’t happen. He could not be leaving; not after it all. Jon knew Arya needed him. So, he mustn’t go. Arya needed to bring Jon back.

“No,” she whispered weakly as she began to run forward, with all the speed she could muster, but in only a few moments, all horses were gone from sight. Arya stopped, looking around in panic. He was gone. Jon left Arya’s pack.

Jon was only the first to leave.

* * *

Arya Stark was born during the first year of the long summer. She had not known of the harshness that the winters of Westeros could bring. She did not know of the frost that would creep up your skin or the ice your tears would become. Arya did not know what it felt like to watch your fingers turn from a pink to red to white to blue. She had never seen the nights that would last all day or the frozen body of a sheep. Arya was born in the long summer, and she had never known the cold.

It was the year 300AL, when Arya felt a strange cold run through her. It was something she’d never felt before. She’d known the cool winds of Winterfell and the burning of ice, but Arya had never felt so strange.  Goosepimples freckled Arya’s skin, running up her arms and her legs. It was uncomfortable how her lungs felt cold but she was also sweating.

Arya felt her knees buckling slightly, and her stick felt heavy. She felt like insects on the inside of her head were picking at her eyes from behind. Arya felt like something was beginning to pull at her body with a sharp wind. Arya began to feel a sharp and religious prickle at her skin that stung like the cold. But she did not stop swinging her sword in a steady rhythm. _Winter is coming_ , Arya would remind herself. It was just the signs of winter that Arya was unfamiliar with. Still, the feeling lingered and the echoes got louder and louder. The world began to spin faster until Arya felt suffocated, as if a tornado was forming around her. She began trying to steal air for her lungs, but was unsuccessful. Somehow Arya found herself on the ground with her vision blurred and her head heavy. Her knees ached from the fall, but they were the least of Arya’s pain. Her body soared with discomfort. A stabbing pain shot throughout her entire body, and soon enough, it all went black.

* * *

Arya dreamt in her slumber. She dreamt of Jon. He stood in front of her, wearing his long cloak, lined with fur and snow. The snow fell heavily and the snow on the ground was piled high. There was nothing to be seen for many miles, except the never ending storm. Jon looked older now, by a couple years. His Stark Grey eyes looked worn but young. His dark hair was longer and his features were more pronounced. It had been two years since they’d said goodbye, and Jon looked so different now. Not only did he look like a man-grown, but he looked older. There were no lines on his face or spots on his skin, but Arya knew he was different.

Jon said nothing to Arya. She was not even sure he could see her. But, Arya could see him, with detail as if he were right in front of her. She could see the snowflakes catching in his hair; she could see the pores on his skin. Arya could even hear him breathe.  

Arya felt happy to see him. He had not written to her at all, and she not him. She missed her brother, and she missed his face. Sometimes, though, Arya had trouble remembering his face. She would sometimes forget the scars he’d been given from playing too roughly with Robb and Theon. Sometimes she forgot the shade of grey of his eyes, even though they matched her own. Sometimes Arya forgot it all, and all she could remember was the feeling of acceptance. Arya sometimes forgot the sound of his voice. Jon never spoke much in the first place, but when he did, Arya reeled in it. She liked his voice when it was serious and she liked it when he was teasing. The only time Arya did not like his voice was when she could not remember it.

It nearly broke her heart every time something reminded her of Jon, but she’d always managed to push that aside. She did not like to feel broken.

That was why Arya felt her heart swell in both happiness and sadness as she saw Jon, clear as day. The wind blew harshly, and the snow continued to fall, but Arya could not feel it. She couldn’t feel the Goosepimples on her skin, or the snowflakes melting. Arya wondered if she was even there.

“Jon,” she called. He did not move. “Jon!” Arya called again, a little louder. He did not hear her. “ _Jon!_ ” He heard her this time and turned to look at her. But Arya suddenly realised that his face was starting to blur. But before Jon faded away completely, he spoke. Arya heard his voice but did not understand his words. He was gone, and Arya was left in the snow, alone. Arya stood there for one second. She did not understand. Anger began to swell inside her, and she balled her hands into fists. She did not feel the pain as her nails dug into her skin.

She stood like that, until another harsh wind blew. And Arya understood its song. _Winter is coming_.

* * *

Arya woke with a start. She tried to hold onto her dream, but the harder she tried, the faster it left her mind.

Her skin, she realised was coated with sweat, and her heart beat loudly and strangely. She almost felt is if it had changed patterns completely. Arya sat up, slowly. She had the feeling that any harsh movements would make her feel even worse than before. She carefully supported herself with her hands as she turned and stepped out of her bed. Catelyn, she saw was sitting on a chair next to the bed. Arya’s mother looked concerned, even when she was a sleep. But still, Arya still thought her mother beautiful.

Arya grunted as she tried to step toward her mother. Catelyn shook, and her eyes snapped open. Her eyes, the distinguished Tully blue colour nearly glowed in the darkness. The confusion fled from Catelyn’s eyes as she acknowledged her daughter. Catelyn wore an expression of worry and frustration now.

“Arya, you’re awake.” Catelyn declared. “You had me worried sick. Get back into bed, you are in no shape to be standing,” Arya frowned. She did feel dizzy, and her limbs felt weak, but Arya did not want to go back to bed.

“I do not want to go to bed,” Arya protested, her voice coming out weakly, draining much of her energy.

“Don’t be a fool, Arya.” Catelyn scolded, standing up. She rested her hands gently on Arya’s shoulders. There was still a line between Catelyn’s brows, but Arya could tell she was trying to remain calm. “You have caught flu. You’ve been asleep for two days.” Arya stared into her mother’s eyes for a moment. They were blue, but they were a strange blue. It was not deep like the sea. It was not dark like the sky. It was not shiny like tears. This blue was a bright blue. It was like the colour of the sky on a summer’s day, mixed in with the sun. The Tully blue of Catelyn’s eyes was the blue of hope.

But when Arya blinked, she saw the moon, and she saw a wolf, howling to its beauty. And Arya did not wish to sleep when the moon hung in the sky; she knew that it was the moon that gave her strength, just like the blue of her mother’s eyes gave her hope.

“I miss the moon.” Arya told her mother. Catelyn simply frowned and her grip on Arya’s shoulders tightened. Arya knew Catelyn would not understand. Catelyn, without a word, guided her daughter to her large featherbed, and pulled up the quilts up to Arya’s chin.

Catelyn kissed Arya’s forehead, and whispered.

“Sleep, child. But do not sleep for too long. The moon will see the sky again,” Catelyn stood up straight and retreated from Arya’s chamber, leaving her daughter with the moon.

Arya looked over to her window and saw the moon once again. A wold howled from far away, and Arya could not help but feel as though the moon was the most beautiful she’d ever seen. Arya felt like she could understood stand what it felt like to be ignored when you shine the brightest. It was all Arya had ever known.

* * *

When Arya woke up next, she was sweating. Her room was still dark, and silent. Looking outside the window, Arya could see that there were a few more hours until sunrise. She stood up, feeling weak, but stable. But Arya was sticky with sweat. Her hair clung to the skin on her neck, as did her night clothes. Getting out of the warmth of her bed, Arya felt a little cooler, but it was not enough. She walked over to the window and put her hands against the glass. The coolness of it sent chills through Arya, and she suddenly longed to be outside.

Quickly, Arya turned; making her head spin too fast, but she ignored it. She grabbed her boots which stood neatly at the foot of her bed. She slipped them on quickly, and grabbed Needle from her hiding spot. Its grip was strong and hard, and Arya clenched it tightly. Arya moved toward the tall door of her chamber, and turned the handle with her free hand.

As quietly as she could muster, Arya crept through the halls. The corridors of the Great Keep, were warm, being built over natural hot springs, but it was cooler. The stone brought a certain chill to the air, that it this time, Arya was grateful for.

Arya managed to sneak out. The night time air was cool, and the wind was brisker. Arya loved it. The cool winds touched her skin beautifully and sharply, making Arya coo at the feeling. She felt cold, but it was a good kind of cold—a beautiful cold; a Stark cold.

A wolf howled. Arya turned her body to follow the sound. Wolves scared Arya, as they would scare anyone. Even Arya, as irrational as she could be, knew not to mess with wolves. Strangely, though Arya felt compelled to the deep howl of the wolf. It came for the Godswood. Perhaps it was a message from the Gods.

Arya began walking towards the woods when the wold howled again. Arya quickened her pace, and slowly she progressed into a run. The wind blew against Arya, and it was almost as if it made her go faster, as her hair danced behind her.  

Another howl and Arya began to slow down, her heart beating too hard and her lungs struggling for air. She stopped in a clearing, reaching for breath. She nearly collapsed on the ground when she heard shuffling in the nearby bushes. Her hand immediately went to Needle, unsheathing her silently and quickly.

Arya was ready to strike whomever or whatever would emerge from the bushes. Arya scanned the area quickly, but saw no one. She opened her ears and eyes some more, listening and looking for a hint. Arya heard the whistle of the wind a little louder. She saw the shapes of the leaves a little clearer. But then, she heard the whimpering of a pup. Arya lowered her sword. When she did, a large pup emerged from the bushes. The eyes of the wolf glowed yellow, and Arya stared into them for a moment, bemused. Arya had never seen anything like the pup. She was big, but not big enough to best Arya. Still, the wolf bared her teeth and snarled.

Arya chuckled and knelt, extending her hand to the pup. She tilted her head, before decided to come closer to Arya. The wolf was big, but Arya could tell she was young.

“You’re a Direwolf, aren’t you?” Arya asked the wolf. Arya giggled as the wolf pounced on Arya, tackling her. “Where’s your mother?”

Arya wondered where this wolf’s pack was. It was probably a horrible idea to play with a pup, without thinking of its pack, but Arya had a strange feeling this dog had the lack of one.

Finally, when Arya felt tired, she stroked the pup calmly, deciding she would be this pup’s pack.

“What should we call you?” Arya asked, scratching the wolf’s ear. “You know, if I were father, and you were me, I would let you be a warrior. I would let you fight, and run and be wild. I would let you conquer and be free. I would raise you like the Rhoynar.” Arya sighed, and continued talking, even though she knew the Direwolf would not understand her words.

“Have you heard the story of Nymeria? Nymeria was a warrior queen who brought ten thousand ships across the narrow sea to Dorne. And she conquered. I wish I could be Nymeria.” Arya smiled. “But if I can’t, maybe you can. How do you like the name Nymeria?” A last wolf howled in the distance, it’s last song to the moon before the sun would rise.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is very short, so for that, I apologise. I have not read it over, so sorry if there are spelling errors and the writing sucks. But please review! Also, thank you for all who reviewed and followed! I love and appreciate you all!  
> Chapter three is called Catelyn, and should be up sometime in the next two weeks.


	3. Catelyn

Chapter Three: _Catelyn_  


It is said that one should always love his mother. She is the one who bore you, the one who fed you and the one who raised you. She is the one that taught you all of your lessons, and she is the one who braided your hair, or taught you how to tie up your boots. She is the one who would scold you with a word and praise you with a pat. She is the one who encouraged you with smiles and sparkling eyes. She is the one who told you stories of the wind and tales of knights. You would pick flowers for your mother, and tell her how wonderfully she made the bread. You would shower your mother with hugs and your own tales from playing in the wood. And she would listen. It is because of all of these things that one should love his mother.

Sometimes there are mothers who are not prone to give praise. They scold their children for speaking, and dismiss their adventures. Some decline hugs, and expect praise. They find flowers to be a waste of time. Their eyes bring not comfort, but cold. They will not tell you of tales or stories of knights but they will tell you not believe in them. They will make you braid your own hair, and make you tuck in the laces of your boots because you do not know how to tie them. These mothers will burn your bread and steal your wine. These are the mothers who should not be loved. But they are, because one should always love his mother.

Catelyn Tully was the good kind. Her children all loved her, and she loved all of them in her own way.

Robb was a good boy. He was strong and had will, yet he had a playful heart. He knew of duty and honour, and he protected not only those he loved, but the lands he walked. Robert had a great devotion to what he believed was right. Robb had the Tully looks, but there was something extraordinarily Stark about him.

Sansa was a beautiful girl. She was a beautiful  _lady_. She did everything properly. She embroidered with graceful hands. Sansa's heart soared to the delicate sounds of music and the beauty of words. When Sansa dance, it looked as though she was the wind, moving through the crowds, not knowing where exactly she'll end up, but knowing what to do to get there. Sansa, like any proper and young lady like herself, dreamed of the knights and princes that would one day sweep her off her feet and love her properly. Those were the dreams Catelyn once possessed. And Sansa had the beauty Catelyn once possessed as well.

Bran was Catelyn's boy. He was unlike any of her children. He did not possess the honour or the strength of Stark. He did not have the same sense of right of Tully. Bran was Bran. He delved and dreamed of adventure. He had old eyes; older eyes than Catelyn had herself. But his face was that of innocence and youth. He loved stories of exploration and journey. And in his old eyes, light of youth would sparkle when he'd climb or speak of the adventures that would surely come to him. Catelyn prayed to the Old Gods and the new that he would one day have them all.

Rickon was just a babe. Rickon was a wild boy. He had long unruly hair and a mischievous smile. Rickon was fierce and strong for being just a babe. It made Catelyn smile to think of her wild little boy. She wondered what kind of man he would one day become. She wondered whom he would come to love and what adventures he may also have. Catelyn wondered if her wild bade would be a wild man. Not too wild, Catelyn hoped; but just enough.

But Arya was a wolf. She always was. From the moment Maester Luwin pulled Arya from Catelyn and put her in her arms, Catelyn knew. When she opened her eyes and revealed that stormy grey that she'd longed to see in one of her children since Robb. Had it not been the colour of her eyes on the day she came into the world, Catelyn knew Arya was a wolf the night when she turned six, when she looked up to the full moon and a wolf howled in the distance. If it not that, it was when Arya howled back.

And Catelyn loved them all, with all of her heart and soul. She loved their faces. She loved their fascinations and aspirations, even when she seldom approved. So, like any good mother who loved her children, it was not a surprise when she woke up in her sick daughter's bedroom to find she had left.

Catelyn had been dreaming of Riverrun. It had been years since she'd been home; to her true home. She felt a strange nostalgia as she recalled praying in the Sept that her father had built. It was strange how back then she would pray to the Seven about the silly things. Catelyn recalled once she prayed for her new dress to be sewn with white pearls instead of the blue beads her sister preferred. She remembered prayer that her betrothal to Brandon Stark would be made official.

It was almost laughable to think of the young Catelyn Tully. Catelyn was not a shriveled up old tart, but she was no longer the young beauty she once was. Her bright blue eyes were once vivid and full of life. Now, they were a bright blue full of wisdom and motherhood.

But dreaming of her home, Catelyn felt young, and it made her wonder if she would ever actually truly belong in the North.

When Catelyn woke up from her hazy dream of home, she knew something was wrong.

She suddenly felt very awake as she look and saw Arya's bed empty, quilts messily thrown aside. Catelyn noticed Arya's riding boots which were usually lying near the foot of her bed, were gone. The door of Arya's chambers was strewn open. Immediately, Catelyn stood up, with such a force, the chair which she slept on almost fell to the ground. Catelyn felt a little light headed from the harsh movement, but ignored it. She stormed out of the room in search of her chambers to wake up her husband.

* * *

Arya sat on the ground, stroking Nymeria rhythmically as she slept in her lap. The wolf's breath was steady and Arya could feel the strength of each of her religious heartbeats. Nymeria kept Arya warm and comfortable even as she sat in the snow and Arya only acknowledged that she should head back when she could no longer feel her cheeks and when pink began to line the horizon. Arya sighed as she scooped up Nymeria, making her stir slightly. Arya let Nymeria calm in her arms a moment more before slowly getting up. It was not a graceful movement, as Arya Stark was never graceful, but it was a careful movement, in her best attempt to not disturb the sleeping pup.

She did not know when Nymeria fell asleep, or even when she'd crawled into Arya's lap, but Arya did not mind. She was too, in fact tired. She still felt ill and she was beginning to feel a chill in her lungs that hinted the signs of a cold. She used much of her resting energy to move her legs forward. Perhaps it was not a very good idea to stay out for so long. Behind her tired eyes, Arya hoped her mother and father would not be up. She did not want them to angry with her when Arya introduced them to Nymeria.

Even as the night only lingered in the air, Arya still heard the sounds of the forest, the ones that could only be found in the dark. The cracking of the branched under her feet stick managed to startle her. The hooting of the owls grew softer, yet eerier. The sound of the wind remained still and unwavering; which was so very unlike the sounds of the moving air. Arya could hear the soft breaths of Nymeria. She could hear her own. And somehow, all of these sounds of the dying night managed to block her own. She could not think with the dusk interrupting. For Arya, a girl whom was never interrupted, it was strange. It was nice.

Arya did not know what time it was by the time she walked up to the main doors of the castle, only that the guards that opened the door for her looked upon her with a mix of amusement and distaste. When Arya walked inside, Nymeria in her arms, dirt on her skin and snow in her hair, she was greeted by the angry blue of her mother's eyes and the familiar grey of her father's. Arya met them, refusing to feel guilty for her late-night promenade.

"Arya Stark, where in the seven hells have you been?" Catelyn demanded. She did not swear very often, but it did not very much faze Arya.

"I've been in the woods," It was by this time that Ned had probably seen the wolf in Arya's arms.

"Why have you brought a wolf with you?" he asked. For a brief second, Catelyn looked confused, but realisation struck as she saw the pup in Arya's arms.

"She's a Direwolf. Nymeria." Arya told her father, pulling Nymeria closer.

"Why have you brought her here?" Ned interrogated further. Arya was unable to read his expression. But this was her father, so she decided to give him the truth.

"She is a wolf without a pack," A smile ghosted Ned's face as he responded,

"No, Arya. Nymeria is a Stark. She will never be a lone wolf again."

* * *

When Arya woke next, she felt completely awful. As Arya opened her eyes, tears poured out from the pain that soared inside. Arya felt familiarly soft and delicate fingers wipe the tears from her face. Arya turned her head to face the woman which these fingers belonged.

"Go back to sleep, Arya, you are still ill." Arya frowned. Yes, it was obvious that she was ill, but what she was really sick of was her mother. She hated being told what to do. She didn't care that her mother was right. She didn't care that at that very instant her first instinct was to close her eyes and dream of winter. She didn't care that she ought to listen to her mother. She didn't care that she was sick; she didn't care for the pain. She didn't care that she wasn't making anything sense.

"No," Arya croaked. Her voice was hoarse. But it still managed to alarm Catelyn.

"Arya, this isn't time for a silly rebellion," Arya pulled herself up, ignoring the ache of her body.

"My  _silly rebellion?_ " Arya felt something move next to her. It was Nymeria. She was now growling at Catelyn. Arya didn't stop her. "You're the ridiculous one,  _mother_."

"You'll do well to shut your mouth, young lady, or we'll be sure to send you off to be a Silent Sister.""What, like how you sent Jon to the Wall?" Catelyn's face hardened.

"Jon  _chose_  to be of the Black,"

"No he didn't!" Arya shouted. "He left because you were cruel to him! He wouldn't have just left me! He wouldn't have! It's all your fault." Arya felt her heart swell. She did not understand how this became about Jon, but it seemed as though it was always about Jon, somehow. Whether it was they grey of the sky, the flowers in her dreams or even the snow on the ground, it was always Jon. And it was about Jon now, too. The tears falling from Arya's eyes were because of Jon. The hurt in Catelyn's eyes was Jon's. The pain Arya felt was Jon. The sadness of Catelyn was Jon's.

Arya wondered if he knew. She wondered if he knew that he was the anger in the clouds or the grass covered by the snow. She wondered in Jon knew that he was the reason that the sun shone too bright or the moon was always hidden. Perhaps the reason he left was because he knew. He knew that for Arya, he was the air she breathed. Perhaps he knew that for Catelyn, he was the stone in her heart. Perhaps it was because he knew that for Ned, he was the hesitance in a shaky sigh. Or perhaps, the reason he left was because he did not know.

Catelyn breathed loudly, echoing somewhere in Arya's mind. Arya held her breath, suddenly not wanting to breathe. She watched as her mother stood up slowly and gracefully left the room. Arya stared at the empty doorway for a moment longer, before deciding that it was in fact, best that she close her eyes. So she did, and she tried to imagine the moon. It really was the most beautiful thing in the world.

* * *

Arya woke hours later, feeling better than ever. Her head felt clear, and her body felt fresh. As she opened her eyes, she expected to see her mother by her bedside, but Catelyn was not there. Confused, Arya jumped out of bed, Nymeria following suite. The floor was cold on Arya's cold feet, but she didn't even notice she'd forgotten her slippers.

Arya padded through the corridors until she was finally outside her mother's chambers. From there, Arya could hear the whispers of Maester Luwin and Ned.

"She will not make it to night,"

Arya frowned. She need not hear anymore. She ignored the glances and the voices coming from Eddard and Luwin as she walked over to her mother's bed. Catelyn lay under many layers of covers. Arya could hear clearly as her mother struggled to catch air into her lungs. Arya barely noticed as her father laid a large hand on her shoulder. "Your mother has caught it too," he explained, squeezing her shoulder. Arya frowned. This could not be true. And if it was, Catelyn would surely survive. Arya moved to the side of Catelyn and dropped to her knees. Catelyn turned her head to face Arya, locking their eyes. There was no doubt. It was true.

Emotion filled Arya, as she recalled their last talk. She had been wrong. She had been so wrong. How? She did not know. "I'm sorry," Arya choked. She realised, once again, that this would mean Catelyn was leaving. Perhaps this would be the last time Arya would see her mother. This would be the last time the grey wolf in Arya would play in the blue hope in Catelyn. This would be the last time Arya would hear Catelyn's voice, no matter how condescending or polite. It would be the last time Arya would have a mother. Soon, Catelyn's face would disappear like Jon's and soon Arya would forget her voice. But this one thing was not about Jon. It wasn't about how he chose to leave, or how he probably forgot. It wasn't about the snow in his hair or the wolf in his spirit. This was about  _Catelyn_. It was about the curve of her lip, the thickness of her hair. It was about the grace in her movements and the song in her words. It was about what a beautiful woman she was, what a faithful wife she was but most of all, it was about the mother she was. The good kind. "Mother," Arya whispered, sparking a glitter in Catelyn's eyes. "please, don't leave me. I don't want to be alone." Catelyn smiled softly, her words smooth but hoarse.

"You are Arya Stark. A Stark will never be without a pack. You remind me so much of Nymeria." Catelyn chuckled slightly, her eyes pouring into Arya. Arya always loved those eyes. Though, it wasn't until then that she realised it. It always seemed like Catelyn's eyes were changing, but they never did. They were always blue; the right kind of blue. Whether they were sad or happy or even just joyful, Catelyn always managed to keep them the right kind of blue. Most people would call it a Tully blue, but Arya knew the difference. This was Catelyn blue. It was the blue that filled her soul; it was the blue that replaced the sky in the darkest of winters. It was the blue of a woman that knew the proper way. It was the blue that was there when the clouds were in the way. It was the blue that made Arya realise how she was wrong. The most beautiful thing in the world wasn't the moon; it was the blue that she would never see again. "You always were a little wolf."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! Tell me of spelling errors or grammatical stuffs. I did not re-read (sorry for being an awful self-beta). And I wanted this to be sad. I could have done better :/ Well, we still have a whole story to make you cry :D
> 
> Next chapter up soon :) (It's called Pack - after chapter four, guess who we're meeting...)


	4. Winter

Chapter Four: _Winter_

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Those were the words they all used. It made sense. It was always winter in Winterfell. There was always snow on the ground and grey in the sky. There was always the distinctive red on the noses of the people from being outside for too long. There was the familiar crunching under the boots of the men carrying firewood to start the fires to warm their homes. There was the chill in the air that revealed the shaky breaths of the women walking to the market stalls to buy the freshest produce they could, hoping it wouldn’t be as costly as the time before. There was the loud thump on the table as the men would hit down their mugs full of warm mead or old ale. There were the snowflakes that would fall into the dark hair of the little girl down the road who loved horses. She would count them as they laced into her messy locks, each one being different, each one being beautiful, each one melting and each one becoming part of her. There were the balls of snow that the boy up the street would make with his bare hands, ignoring the instructions of his mother. He would take the balls of cold water and throw them at the girl who counted snowflakes; the little girl whom he would one day be wed. There was that old man who sat outside one of the larger inns and rubbed his old and cracked hands together in hopes of keeping all of his wrinkled fingers; he’d already lost three of his toes. There was the constant howling of the wolves not too far into the woods that the innkeeper’s daughter would stop and listen to, trying to remember what the moon looked like through the eyes of a wolf. She wondered if her lover went to join the wolves when he died three years past. It seemed fitting that he belong with them; he never really belonged with her. There was also the moon that made the winter so bright. It was believed that when winter came, the moon shone brighter. It was believed that when the winds rose, that the moon moved with it. It was believed that when the wolves sighed into the night, the moon sung back. It was believed that when the Starks left Winterfell, not only would winter come, but nothing would be left. It was always winter in Winterfell. And the Starks were winter.

It was the year 303AL when winter started to pick up. Arya was four-and-ten then, a woman-grown most would say, but Arya sat there, in the Godswood with her eyes shut tightly, leaning on her father as she listened to the smooth sounds of the forest and the steady rhythm of the cloth touching Ice’s blade. Arya found herself here very frequently since her mother died. She found herself forgetting the chills in the air and the moon in the sky. She began to tune out the howling of the wolves and the whispers of the Gods. She found herself feeling numbness that she longed for since they all began to leave. She found herself living in dreams of snow and songs of ice and fire. Sometimes Arya would change entirely and see through the eyes of a raven flying up over the woods. Through those old and wise eyes, she would see the swift movements of the trees. She would notice the gentle touch of the air. She would glide through the clouds with her wings spread wide and her dark feathers in the wind. It was those times when she took the being of the raven that she felt invisible. Arya never thought she wanted to be invisible, and perhaps it was not truly what she wanted, but sometimes it was as though she would rather not be seen at all than be seen as something she could never be.

 

That day in 303 AL, the day when winter started to pick up, Arya was not a raven. That day, she was just Arya. She did not try to be a bird or a wolf or the wind. She just listened and breathed, and somehow, on that one day, that seemed to be enough. As Arya began to think about something probably irrelevant now, a heavy wind began to pick up. It was heavier than she’d ever felt before. It made Arya feel cold as the wind seeped through her light tunic. She opened her eyes, the force of the wind making them water. Arya looked up at her father, somewhat expectantly. He’d stopped polishing his greatsword, his hand holding the cloth against the steel, but not moving it. Arya looked up at his face. His hair was playing in the wind curiously as he tilted his head back. His mouth gaped, slightly opened and smooth. Ned’s eyes were closed and his brow was furrowed very slightly. It was a curious thing to watch. Arya turned her gaze to look up at the Weirwood tree beside them. Its bark was white and pasty. Arya knew if she touched its surface, it would feel as though she were running her fingers along a smooth bone. Its gaping face was strange and yet beautiful. Arya knew that it should make some people uncomfortable, but it reminded her of winter; it reminded her of home. The blood-red of the sap dripping down the ivory-like trunk, ran smoothly and vertically as the wind blew, and Arya wondered if the tree was crying or bleeding. Perhaps it was both.

Arya averted her eyes back to her father as the wind began to settle. He was looking at her now. There was hesitation in his smooth breath, curiosity in his grey eyes and regret on his subtle frown. Arya felt as though the words that she would soon come to here were the bringers of what she was always warned would come. “Arya, I received a raven one moon ago. We’re leaving the North.” _Winter_.

* * *

Arya always knew that she loved Winterfell, but it wasn’t until she was leaving that she realised how much she loved it. And as her father sat at the end of the table and explained what would be happening, all Arya could think of were the crypts beneath Winterfell. She wondered if one day her bones would be buried there. She wondered if Nymeria would sit at her feet and protect her forever. She wondered if her soul would be free and cast into the skies. She wondered if she would become the moon. Arya wondered if she would become a snowflake or if her spirit would run to join the wolves. But most of all, Arya wondered if she would become the winter. It seemed it wouldn’t be so as she sat with her hands in her lap, her head tilted down to look. She sat with her four siblings as her father explained what was to happen. But, as Arya listened to the words he was saying, she still didn’t understand.

“The King is coming North,” Ned explained, restraint evident in his voice. “We will be hosting the royal family with complete respect.” Arya looked up at her father, puzzled. He was saying nothing about leaving.

“Do you know why they have decided to ride North?” Robb inquired; his blue eyes curious and calm. He’d grown calm over the years. He was still a stubborn and dutiful little fool, but calm nonetheless. Perhaps it had to do with his wife, Jeyne Westerling or the birth of his daughter, Catelyn. But it seemed as though his face never really changed, a lot of the rest of him did. His voice was deeper and he’d grown stubble; his hair was cropped shorter and his hands were more callused, but his eyes are what differed the most. Much like mother’s once had, his eyes once had a strange hope, but now, it seemed like the blue of his eyes never did shine as brightly. It made Arya sad, but she understood.

Ned looked Robb in the eye. He always looked his children in the eye as he spoke to them.  “I do not know for certain, but Jon Arryn is dead.” Ned paused for a moment.   “The King will be searching for a new hand.”

“You mean, you’re leaving us?” Arya demanded, balling her hands at her side. Ned looked at her.

“No, Arya. You and your sister will be coming to King’s Landing with me.” Arya was appalled. This wasn’t just! Why did Robb and Bran and Rickon get to stay?

“This isn’t fair!” Arya exclaimed. “You’re only forcing me to go because you want to marry me off and be done with me!” Ned’s face managed to stay placid as Arya yelled, but he always seemed to be placid. Yet, also stiff. He never smiled or laughed. He never shouted or frowned. It was as though he felt nothing at all. Even with the rage Arya was beginning to feel, she couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he wanted to be like the raven. Perhaps he wanted to be invisible. Perhaps all he felt was numb.

“Nothing is for certain at this moment,” is all he told her. Arya swallowed and looked around the table. Sansa, who always seemed a little sad, did not say a word. Rickon shifted impatiently in his seat, his hair grown even more unruly since he lost his mother. He twiddled with his fingers, not have been paying attention. Robb held his composure calmly, looking at father. Bran, however, was looking at Arya. Sad and old eyes, as always. 

* * *

 

 

Over the next few days, preparations were made for the arrival of the king. Almost every inch of the Great Keep and the Great Hall were polished until they sparkled even in the darkness. Even among the common folk there was a buzz about the arrival of the king. It seemed as though everyone was enthused by the arrival of the royal court. Sansa would absolutely not shut up about it. She would speak of how dreamy she believed the prince to be and how handsome. She would speak of how she and the princess would get along beautifully. As she would brush her hair or as she did her needlework effortlessly, she would dream of being the crowned prince’s queen.

Robb even seemed excited. He would hold his newborn daughter in his arms and silently whisper to her stories from Robert’s rebellion and how excited he was to finally meet him. But Arya was anything but excited.

Thirteen days after Ned announced the arrival of the Royal Court, they rode into Winterfell with hundreds of men on horses and banners of stags and lions. The queen was beautiful, but Arya held no admiration for her. She had golden hair like the sun and eyes the colour of sun-stained grass. She held herself well in heavy dresses and in the eyes of everyone else. She didn’t smile much, at least not more than a smirk. She seemed the ideal queen, and she was how any queen would be imagined. The King was nothing like the stories and Arya couldn’t help but be even more disappointed. He did not look like the man Arya imagined, he did not look like a proper king. He was fat, sweaty and his charcoal black hair was matted and greasy. He had an obnoxious laugh and he always seemed to have a mug of ale in his hand.

Though, the King was not nearly as disappointing as his children. Prince Joffrey, who was the oldest was despicable. He was not nearly as good-looking as Sansa believed him to be and he was an outright prick. Arya hated him. She also held no love for Myrcella who preferred Sansa. Myrcella liked everything a proper princess was supposed to like and Arya wanted absolutely none of it. Tommen was decent, but boring. Arya played swords with him once, but he wasn’t close to being an able opponent.

It was two nights after the arrival of the royal court that everything was made official. Arya sat between Sansa and Bran after escorting prince Tommen into the Hall. The entire Hall was decorated well and beautifully, in hopes of making the walls made of stone feel warmer and safer, like summer. The food served was a mix of southern delicacies, Northern servings and Dornish desserts. The only pleasant thing about the entire event was the lemon cakes. Lemon cakes were Arya’s favourite.

As Arya sat, eating her lemon cakes, she stared at the crowned prince. Joffrey was picking at his food with a scowl on his face. He was completely unpleasant, and Arya loathed him. She hated him for calling her Arya Horseface and calling her a barbarian. She hated him even more when he caught her and Bran playing swords and told her that it was no place for a lady to be playing such games. She hated that he had fooled Sansa into believing that he was the perfect prince. Arya sighed and put down her fork. Just thinking about Joffrey made her lose her appetite. As Arya did so, she noticed Sansa staring at Joffrey dreamily.

“He’s a little shit, you know.” Arya said, pinching her sister. Sansa winced in pain.

“Arya! You cannot say such things!” Sansa protested. Then, regaining her posture and looking back with a soft smile, she continued, “He really is handsome. I hope we marry.” Arya frowned. Her sister really was an idiot. She found it hard to comprehend how even someone as daft as Sansa could take any fancy to this insufferable boy.

“He is _not_ handsome, Sansa.” Sansa rolled her eyes and turned to face Arya once more.

“He _is_. You’re just jealous because you know no one will ever want to marry someone as disgusting as you.” Sansa retorted with a perfect cocked eyebrow. The blue of her eyes danced quite annoyingly beautifully in the red flame of the candle. Sansa was always beautiful, even though she had an awful personality and was good for nothing; she still managed to get everyone to like her. She still managed to be the most beautiful girl in all seven kingdoms. She still managed to give dazzling smiles and charming conversation. Arya never managed any of these things. Arya always thought she was okay with that, but as she noticed Joffrey staring at her sister, she knew she wasn’t.

“That is not true! Plus, I don’t even _want_ to marry!” Arya huffed, quite loudly. “You and that insufferable ass deserve each other!” It was that moment that King Robert chose to rise. He bellowed loudly before beginning. Everyone turned to look at their king in silence, waiting for him to begin whatever nonsense he would most likely say.

“I think it’s been a long time coming that this happen. Ned here agrees with me that it’s about time House Baratheon and House Stark join together. When Joffrey comes of age, he will wed the eldest Stark daughter…” He turned to look at Ned. He forgot Sansa’s name.  Ned mouthed ‘Sansa’ and Robert bellowed loudly again, his laughter echoing against the stone walls of the Great Hall. “Yes, yes. Sansa. And it’s also been a long time comin’ that Ned here be the hand of his king!” Arya didn’t know what he said next, as she watched as Sansa smiled more brightly than Arya had ever seen before. At least, more brightly than Arya had seen since the death of Catelyn.

Watching her sister’s happiness made Arya sick. It was not that she wanted her sister to be in despair, but she hated how something as awful as this could make her happy. Just sitting in that room intoxicated Arya with feelings of unwelcome and an awful sense of nostalgic realisation. Arya decided to do what she needed to not to explode.

She stood up silently and excused herself. She felt the eyes of her father follow her as she left the hall. Once she was out of the hall, Arya sat down and leaned against the stone wall. She did not feel tears in her eyes. She did not feel anger in her heart. She did not feel numb. She felt heavy. She felt as though there was something weighing down on her entire being. Arya pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them in a familiar manner. She felt like she’d done something wrong. She felt like that whatever it was that she did had stripped her of all of the control she had left. She felt as though every day there were parts of her that were being taken. Because Arya was no longer a little wolf. She was not a lady, nor a snowflake or the moon. She wasn’t a star in the sky or a raindrop in a storm. Arya was not the wind, she was not the snow, and she was not the grey in the sky. She was not the sound of the crunching under the boots of men. She was not the howling of the wolves or the distinctive red that the cold used to make its mark. Arya was not Winter. Still, she knew that she could never be Summer. 


	5. Cat

Chapter Five: _Ugly_  


King’s Landing was not cold, nor beautiful. It was ugly. The people there were ugly, with their plain expressions and boring eyes. Even the most handsome women men to stroll the streets only smiled as courtesy and etiquette rather than pleasure. The rhythm of their steps was either irritatingly steady or confusingly reckless. No one around the streets knew their neighbours, their friends or their rivals. No one here had a sense of spirit or rage. They were ugly people, in an ugly city. Arya saw the stone of the roads and grimaced, it was a different shade of stone of the one she was used to. It was the wrong shade, the ugly shade. The trees around the large city were greener, in a sense. It was the kind of green that absorbed more sun and water, yet it wasn’t fresh. It was awful and it was ugly. The windows of every building were either dented or unkempt, covered in dirt, or they were far too clean. Arya always loved the windows back home, always a little foggy and stronger, to her, these windows were only ugly. Even the air of the city smelled of shit and pollution, as though nothing was cared for. Never before had Arya described the air to be ugly until she entered the gates of King’s Landing. Yet, Arya knew that for as long as she was in the city, that word would be used very often.

However, as much as Arya saw ugly, she also saw mystery. In the people, she saw strangers. And, Arya wondered who they were, what they were called, when was their name days, how many more would they have. Is baffled her how she would never know, these people would remain strangers forever. For all Arya knew, they could have different faces entirely than the ones she passed by quickly. The men could be secret assassins from across the narrow seas, and they could come and go without anyone ever noticing. In Winterfell, everyone knew everyone, and every person to pass through the gates to leave or to enter was recorded, and within a fortnight everyone would know. In King’s Landing, on the other hand, secrets were kept and mysteries remained just that. The dark alleys and the night sky were always left dark and unexplored. The people were never asked questions, and they never questioned. King's Landing was a place nothing like Winterfell; it was warm, busy, mysterious and ugly.    

Still, however mysterious, and however ugly, Arya got to see very little of King’s Landing as she rode through in a carriage. The wheels of the carriage made a disgraceful noise as they clucked against the stone. As Arya looked out the small carriage window, she felt the urge to jump out. Either jump out or turn the horses back around to Winterfell. Sansa, was at Arya’s side, sleeping softly, undisturbed by the terrible clucking and grinding of the wheels. Even in here sleep, Sansa looked beautiful. Her red lips were parted slightly, only breathing quietly. Arya noticed that even whilst unconscious, Sansa managed to be graceful. Getting upset by the thought, Arya decided to try to wake up her sister. However, a bump in the road did it for her, slightly jolting Sansa and the carriage. As Sansa woke, Arya looked out the window with a frown. _Bloody King’s Landing with bumps in the road_. Outside, Arya glanced around, not paying close attention to anything until two yellow pearls catch her eye. From the dark shadow of an alley way, Arya spotted two glowing yellow orbs with black in the middle. _Eyes_. But not of a human. The carriage passed too soon to get a better look. Arya thought no more of it.

* * *

She sat cross-legged on the window seat of her chamber, which was adorned with red and gold colours and matching furniture. The window was open, and Arya could very easily fall out from her fifth floor room. Of course, she did not test this, even though it would save her from her seemingly never ending boredom. From this window, Arya had a wonderful view of the gardens. Flowers of all kinds were bloomed and beautiful. The colours ranged from the red and gold of Arya’s room to the familiar blue of the Winter Roses. Even from the fifth floor, Arya could see the bugs buzzing around the flowers, minding their own business peacefully. Though, as always, Arya was not paying attention to the pretty flowers of the buzzing insects, her attention was set on the two people in the garden. One woman, with dark blonde hair and a purple dress who wore an empty expression, was reading some sort of book. The other was a skinny man, just barely taller than the woman in purple. He was taking care of some of the shrubbery as he took a suspicious look around.

Fake, those people, fake. Fake, ugly and mysterious. Arya sighed, getting possibly even more bored with these people. She closed the window hastily, getting off her seat. Arya, still wearing the clothes she’d been wearing for the month of her trip, craved a shower, and wondered why she hadn’t been given one right away. Arya had seen dozens of servants around the castle, and she couldn’t comprehend why one could prepare a bath for her. Sighing, Arya dug through her trunk to find some briefs, a tunic and her boots.

She untied her dress quickly, trying not to tangle herself, but not caring whether she stretched it or not. Arya pulled her tunic over herself and pulled on her breeches, stuffing her feet into her boots at the same time. Somehow, Arya managed without falling onto or over anything. Securing Needle, which had been laying on the floor, into her belt, Arya left the chamber, leaving what some would consider a mess.

Arya roamed the vast halls, aimlessly, seeing many things, but paying attention to none of them. There were spiders, servants, knights, ladies and spies but Arya did not inspect. There were cooks and paintings, and decorations but Arya did not notice. There were marks and imperfections in the walls and the ceilings and there were bright flames, but Arya did not care. The halls were warm and unlike home, the ceilings were too high and wooden and the floors were too soft, too creaky. This is what Arya noticed, this is what she cared about, because this is what was unlike home.

The Red Keep was a massive castle made of the strangest stone Arya had ever seen. Red stone, giving the castle its name, Arya assumed. There were no Red stones in Winterfell, and it was better that way. The massive curtain walls that surrounded the castle made Arya feel strange. She did not like the feeling of being watched. Although Arya was used to living in a castle surrounded by large walls, there was something unfitting about these. They made her feel unwelcome, which she surely was. There were seven towers in the Red Keep, which would seem like a large number except seven seemed to be frequent all over Westeros. Seven Kingdoms. Seven Gods. Seven Gates. Seven Towers. In Westeros, people believed seven to be a good number, a lucky number, a holy number. But Seven was not for Arya, it seemed like a burden; a curse. A mistake.

Feeling sick of this place, Arya decided to sneak out of the castle, well, by sneak; she walked through the gates under the disapproving and stern looks of the many guards. Whereas inside the walls, there was a soft buzzing of voices and commotion once in a while, or complete silence, outside the walls were different. The streets were crowded and busy. Arya saw ladies gossiping in small groups, giving people dirty looks. There were the men at the market stalls yelling at loiterers to get away. There were children running about, their giggles echoing almost unnoticeably in the distance. Arya walked through the city making eye contact with no one, looking only at the empty street corners and the dark places everyone ignored. And Arya did not realize that she was looking for until she found it.

Sitting stiffly beside a drunken man was a pretty tabby cat, with very yellow, very unforgettable eyes. Arya stopped in her tracks, the person walking behind her almost crashing into her. Arya paid no attention to anything but the cat as it slowly got up and started walking. Arya followed it with a furrow in her brow, but without a word.

As Arya followed, the cat began to quicken its pace, and Arya had to run through the dense crowds of people to follow. Why she was chasing a cat? There was no reason but boredom and curiosity.

As Arya chased, the further they went into the city, and soon Arya did not know where she was. But soon enough, the cat turned a corner, and Arya began to hear a strange music. Music was perhaps not the right word for her, but the sounds seemed like the only thing in King’s Landing that wasn’t quite ugly. Arya heard the songs of hammering and the screeching of kissing metal. Arya followed the music, the cat slowly leaving her mind, into the forge. The heat and humidity hit her like the wind, giving her chills different than the ones of the cold.

In the forge, Arya saw a boy about Robb’s age hammering at what looked like the starts of a sword. Unlike Robb, however, he had a large frame, probably too large for a boy of his size. Arya stood there for a moment, until she saw those yellow eyes just a few feet from her. She pounced, but the cat ran and Arya landed on her face with a grunt. After a moment, Arya managed to push herself up. The boy had turned around by then. He was frowning as he knelt, extending his arm. His eyes met hers, as she took his callused hand. They were blue; a familiar blue. And they were far from ugly.

 


	6. Gendry

Chapter Six: _Gendry_  


Boys… Arya had not much thought about it. Of course, boys surrounded her everyday life. Arya had four brothers after all. She knew the obvious differences between boys and girls. Boys and men were stronger both in stature, and in brain… that’s what they said anyway, though Arya did not believe any of it. Boys cut their hair and shaved their faces, though it seemed as though they bathed far less. Boys looked at ladies funny and played swords instead of playing house. Boys were rough and dirty and often smelled of sweat and somehow either food or cobwebs. Boys were all the same, some weak and some brave. Still, Arya never thought much of boys. She envied them for their dirtiness and their pride, but she never _thought_ of them. Sansa did, of course. And over the past years, Arya had had to sit through hours upon hours of Sansa and Jane thinking aloud of boys. How they walk with their natural swagger; the dimples on their faces as they flash a not-so-rare smile. How the lines of their jaws were oh-so chiseled. How the muscled rippled on their back. How they laughed and spoke and winked and danced. Boys, boys , boys. Yet, never once had Arya understood how they could think of boys like that. The smells, the arrogance! Never had Arya wanted to kiss or even touch another boy as Sansa and Jane wanted. Not even now, as the boy with the blue eyes laughed at her, as she explained her story.

“What’re you doing here?” he’d asked her, with a furrow between his brow. She frowned back at him, ready to explain her frustration.

“I’m chasing that godforsaken cat!” That was when the laughter started. His whole body moved as he roared in laughter. It unnerved Arya. What an idiot. How dare he laugh at her? She pushed him. He merely staggered, laughing slightly harder.

“Why in the seven hells were you chasing a cat? Are you stupid or somethin’?” He said, a grin still marking his soot-covered face. Arya crossed her arms, deepening her scowl.

“Well, if you _must_ know, I was—” she was cut off by the calling of her name.

“Arya Stark! Show yourself!” She did not recognize the source of the voice, though she knew she had to leave. Arya took one more glance at the boy as he looked at her stupidly, before she bolted. Into the cobbled streets, she saw several Gold Cloaks looking about, shouting her name, telling her to “show herself”. Arya rolled her eyes as she made her way through the crowd, weaving through the many people. She shoved, and yelled and shoved some more and somehow she managed to find her way back to the keep. None of the Gold Cloaks had gotten hold of her, probably thinking she’d be wearing some fancy gown, and even at the entrance of the gates, the guards had given her a hard time about her identity.

“Who are you? The King is not seeing any folk today.” The one with the gross beard said.

“I am Arya Stark! My father is hand of the King!” Arya protested, puffing out her chest in defiant pride.

“Oh please, we’ve had about eleven Arya Starks today. Go back to Flea Bottom!” The other one with the moles along his jaw retorted.

“You have no idea who you are talking to! You’re so senseless!” Arya yelled back, receiving a chuckle from Beard and an irritated eye-roll from Moles. Arya clenched her fist, ready to attack the old stinky men when a girl came running out of the doors. She wore an elegant pink dress, and her hair flew behind her like flames. It was Sansa. “Sansa!” Arya called out her name. When she caught up with Arya and the guards her cheeks were flushed pink, and her hair was slightly distraught. At first, Arya believed her sister was relieved to see her, but then Sansa frowned and yelled,

“Arya! Where in the world have you been?” Arya did not bother to answer as she rolled her eyes and pushed through the guards, giving each of them dirty looks.

Not bothering to wait around for Sansa, Arya trudged towards the doors. Sansa, catching up declared, “You must be bathed immediately! You’re filthy!”

“I don’t feel like it,” Arya responded. “And I’m not that filthy, I’ve got just a little dirt on me.”

Sansa rolled her eyes this time, the irritation plain on her pretty face. “When was the last time you _bathed_?” Arya quickened her pace, not caring to answer or listen to what Sansa wanted to say. _Honestly_ , who did Sansa think she was? “Stop walking so fast! Frankly, it’s rude and you’re going to make me trip!” Arya stopped in her tracks, Sansa nearly crashing into her. Arya turned around and looked up at her sister.

“ _Ladies_ don’t _trip_.” Arya proclaimed before continuing to the doors.

* * *

Somehow, Sansa had managed to force Arya into a bath and into a gown with far too many frills. The fabric was silk and it felt nice against Arya’s raw skin. It was not too tight and if not for the itchy frills, Arya reckoned she would not have minded the dress. But frills ruin everything.

Arya sat on her bed staring up at the tall ceiling. She was bored. Again. She’d been in this lousy state for the past hour. Perhaps she could have done some reading, or taken another walk. She could have gone over to attempt to play the red lute which sat prettily on her nightstand, held up against the wall in a decorative fashion. She could have begun to sing or dance and smile pointlessly. She could brush her hair or write a letter. But those would only tire Arya. Perhaps not physically, but mentally. She believed that in performing any one of those things would make her want to kill herself. And as she still like the idea of perhaps living a bit longer, she decided to stick to the safety of boredom, to which she’d become accustomed to.

She began to contemplate the inconsistency of the ceiling for the millionth time where there was an abrupt knock on the door. “Enter at your own peril. There are only thoughts of suicide and boredom in these chambers.” Arya kept her gaze to the ceiling as prompt footsteps followed the squeaking of the door.

“You’re so dramatic,” begun Sansa. Arya could almost hear the look of disapproval on Sansa’s pretty face.

“Says _you_ ,” Arya retorted looking at her sister. Though it was hard to believe the dress Sansa sported had double the frills, yet Sansa managed to look quite splendid while Arya looked as though she was wearing the dress as a practical joke. Arya held back an irritated sigh as she looked back up at Sansa’s face, her face newly powdered with rouge. “You know you don’t need that stuff on your face. It makes you look stupid.”

“At least I don’t _always_ look stupid,” Sansa proclaimed with a roll of her eye. “Anyhow, you could use a little rouge, you look sickly.”

“It’s not my fault; the frills make everything look stupid.” _See? It was always the frills_.

“It’s not the dress that’s ugly,” Arya flushed and sat up, looking away from her sister.

“Whatever it’s not like I care anyway,”

With a sigh, Sansa began exiting the room, informing Arya, “The feast begins shortly. Father and the _King_ are expecting us.” Sansa closed the door behind her and Arya fell back on her bed with a grunt.

* * *

The feast was nice. Arya sat in a seat that had the most comfortable cushions she’d ever felt. Her sister glared at her a few times, insulting her posture, but how could anyone possibly sit up in a chair where all you want to do is melt? So Arya slouched in her chair and devoured her food and drank a glass of wine. Music played loudly and joyfully. People danced, and ate. It was a very nice occasion.

When Arya was younger, she’d always loved feasts. She’d always dance stupidly with all her brothers and her father would let them have some wine. They would get double the pudding and got to stay up very late. The feasts in Winterfell were large and loud and incredibly festive. Arya quite enjoyed the one here, where the feast was much larger and much louder.

As Arya was taking a bite of her sixth tart, a shadow loomed over her, blocking her light. Arya looked up, crumbs around her face to see a scowling Sansa.

“You’re disgusting,” Sansa said, plainly. “We ought to greet the King and my betrothed. Wipe your mouth.” Arya swallowed and used her sleeve as a napkin before standing up. Today she was in a decent mood, and did not mind having to deal with the cackling beast that ruled her lands.

When Sansa and Arya approached him, he was holding his wineskin, busy smiling at some fat woman. His wife looked bored. Or, more so, she looked annoyed. Her eyebrow cocked and a whole face of disdain. She could look like a queen, maybe if she held herself like Sansa in moments like these. Still, she looked more like a queen than Robert did a king.

“Your grace,” Sansa curtsied. Robert bellowed, a big stupid smile caked onto his chubby face.

“My king,” Arya took her turn in curtsying and was quite proud she did not trip.

Sansa spoke with the king quietly but politely, laughing when he did. He was loud as usual, quite scary actually, though he obviously meant no harm. Arya found him quite funny actually. Perhaps not what he was saying, but it was almost a joke that he was king. In the stories there are many different kings. The tall, big, intimidating one that no one should cross. The fair, loved king that made the lands prosper. There were crazy kings, one in particular. All kings it seemed were memorable kings whether for the good or for the bad. However, King Robert Baratheon was a joke of a king—of a man. The way his belly jiggled when he cackled and bellowed like a buffoon was hilarious while also disgusting to see. The way the King’s breath reeked of wine and meat whenever someone walked within a ten foot radius of him. The way he’d have women of all kinds, fat women, ugly women, even comely woman surrounding him, was perhaps ruder than funny, but it wasn’t kingly. 

Mayhaps King Robert once possessed the look of a true and proper king. She’d heard stories of him in his youth; his great conquers wielding a great Warhammer. She’d heard rumours that he bore the strength of a bull. And when Arya looked upon his face, past the messy beard and the drunken flush of his skin, she could see his eyes. His blue, a strange familiar which Arya could tell once possessed the strength and power of a young man, who had the potential to be a great king. It saddened Arya he’d ended up like this.

* * *

It was an hour shy of midnight that Arya found herself near the stables. The need for horses in King’s Landing was not plenty, yet the stables were grand, hosting just under a dozen horses. She sat next to a large stack of hay, in a spot not covered in shite, resting her head against the stall. She’d managed to both take out the pins of her hair and escape the feast with ease.

Arya had been sitting in the same place for nearly twenty minutes. She felt restless and she did not know what to do. She’d come out to go for a ride but there was nowhere _to_ ride in this crowded city and that stupid stable boy would not lend her a horse. With a sigh, Arya opened her eyes and stood up, sending the idiot a disregarded glare. The stable boy back in Winterfell never denied Arya her horse, especially after the time she’d stomped on his foot so hard he couldn’t walk for a week. Arya considered doing the same to this young boy however she didn’t think it would end particularly well considering the two guards nearby.

Arya took a brief second to remember the last time she rode back home.

Arya had awoken two days before they were set to ride off to King’s Landing. It had been a particularly chilled day, the sky murky and the winds alive. Arya’s family was still fast asleep, but Arya felt restless. As she looked out her window, and saw the cold of Winterfell, she could not resist the temptation. Pulling on a cloak and some riding boots, Arya hastily made her way to the stables, bringing Nymeria with her. When they arrived, she stroked the white of Snow’s coat as her favourite stable boy saddled him up. Arya had received Snow on her last name day, from Robb. She’d taken Snow everywhere, from the Godswood to some place so far North, she only headed back to avoid getting lost. Snow and Nymeria got on well too. Nymeria loved coming with Snow and Arya, and discovering new places. Arya did not realise how much there was to discover until the years following her mother’s death. However much it saddened Arya to admit, it was true, though it is to be said that discoveries can be as beautiful as they can be horrific.

On that particular day, however, Arya did not feel the need to discover. She felt the need to carve every inch of Winterfell that she’d come to know and recognise into her brain. She could not fathom waking up one day in some strange man’s land, unable to remember her home. Thus, she took Snow up into the Godswood, where she prayed next to the Heart Tree, who sang her songs with the blood dripping from its eyes. She took Snow to the tangled river, where she washed her face with the icy water. She rode Snow through the trees, Nymeria at her side, all the way up to the cliff she’d discovered long ago.

It was nearing midday by now and the clouds were beginning to clear, revealing the sun. Arya dismounted Snow, tying him to a nearby tree and took a seat on the ledge of the cliff, dangling her feet. From there Arya could see everything—everything that mattered anyway. She could see the stone houses of Winter Town, and the tall walls enclosing Winterfell. She could see the smoke erupting from the chimneys of the roofs faintly covered in snow. Arya almost didn’t notice how the snow sparkled from the reflection of the shy sun.

If Arya closed her eyes and listened very carefully, she could hear the hammering on the anvil coming from Mikken’s forge. She could hear the shuffling of the leaves from the Godswood. She could hear the chopping of wood and even the chatter and patter of the Townsfolk.

Sitting on that ledge looking and listening, Arya couldn’t find it in herself to cry. She’d needed to force herself to believe that one day Arya Stark would return to Winterfell, exactly as she had left. 

The Arya Stark that had left Winterfell rode constantly… all the time. Except this bloke was being a dumb and wouldn’t let her see Snow. Looking back at him, he was brushing the coat of some pretty brown horse with distant onyx eyes. Arya really did hate him.

As Arya began imagining ways the chap could ‘accidentally’ fall to his untimely death, something jumped out in front of her.

“There you are!” Arya exclaimed. The dumb cat began to pat away carelessly, Arya following it.

* * *

He led her to a place near flea bottom, where it reeked of food scraps and death. It was a house, tall, with the windows open and lights on. Arya could over hear singing and clanking and dancing and overall drunkenness. Of course the damned cat went inside, through the opened door. Arya was reluctant to follow, not caring for the immense amount of sweaty bodies and breath that smelled of approaching death. But Arya was determined and if this ugly cat thought a silly common folk celebration like this would stop her from catching it then that cat was stupid.

Arya lasted about three whole minutes before losing all sense of direction as well as her trace of the cat. She blamed those common folk and how they pushed her around as though she weighed nothing. Arya huffed in defeat. She’d lost to a stupid little cat twice now. She also had no idea to get out of this godforsaken house. Standing on her tip-toes, she searched over the heads of people she didn’t know for her way out. It took her longer than it should have, but she did manage to spot it. Arya was about to show herself out when two giant men came running and as they made a turn they shoved her with immense. Her back connected to something hard and with a thump she fell to the floor. She stood up quickly, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment. It was a bar counter Arya had contacted with. In her head, she cursed it with all words her brothers had taught her.

“Can I get you somefin te drink?” A woman wearing an apron asked her. Arya sighed and slumped onto the stool, giving up on her pursuit for the exit.

“How much a drink?” Arya asked nonchalantly. The Lady laughed rudely.

“A hundred coin! Ye’ve come to a celebration and you want te pay for yer drinks?” The woman laughed and Arya internally rolled her eyes.

“Nothing then,” Arya stated. “Alright, call over Mona if ye need anything.” When she left, Arya began to absorb where she was. Arya realised that it was not in fact a house as she’d originally thought, but a tavern, with small tables, and a servant girl handing grabby men their drinks. Two men, the men that had knocked Arya over were sitting at a table arm wrestling by the looks of it. Some people were dancing and singing their tankards high in the air as they sang songs. Arya could barely hear the lute they sang to over the volume of their voices.

“Came for the celebration?” A familiar voice asked. Arya turned around to see that a man had taken the seat next to her. He had blue eyes and black hair, but there was no longer any soot on his face. The boy from the forge awaited an answer before shrugging and looking past Arya. “Hey, Mona!” The server came over, at least six tankards between her fingers. “Thanks,” he said, taking a mug before taking a sip. “Where is Erta anyway?”

The girl shrugged and responded, “No idea. I reckon he’s passed out in ’is own piss right about now.” The boy laughed a funny little chuckle as Mona walked away. Arya frowned at the exchange as the boy looked back at her.

“What’s wrong with your face?”

“What do you mean _what’s wrong with my face_?”

“It’s all… wrinkly.” Arya sneered, but changed the subject.

“You’re the boy from the forge.” Something familiar in his blue eyes twinkled as he responded,

“Yes, that’s me. Never seen you before though. What’s your name?” Arya debated reminding him of the falling incident, but figured she’d rather not.

“I’m… Arya.”

“Cheers, Arya. I’m Gendry.”  

 


End file.
